Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  With the driver nowhere to be seen, George climbs into the back of the truck and passes me a box.

  “Put everything straight into the back of the van,” he orders.

  A few dozen boxes and four thousand miles of copper pipe later, we get to the bathroom suite.

  “Good grief,” I remark as I’m handed a chocolate-coloured sink. “For their sake I hope the guests are colour blind.”

  “Not my cup of tea either but coloured suites are all the rage these days.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “Actually, the brown doesn’t look too bad with gold taps but the avocado and primrose yellow suites look bloody awful.”

  “I don’t care what colour they are … as long as they’re not heavy.”

  “The bathtub is acrylic so you’ll be okay.”

  As the last item comes off the truck, the driver returns. He moans about his wife for five minutes before getting back in the cab and leaving us to it.

  True to George’s word, the acrylic bath proves a damn sight easier to carry than its cast iron predecessor.

  Once we’ve moved the suite and all the other gubbins up to the room and unpacked everything, George lays it all out in some kind of order. For a man who struggles with instructions for flat pack furniture, the array of plumbing paraphernalia looks ridiculously complicated.

  “There’s a lot of it,” I comment. “How do you know what goes where?”

  “Experience, lad.”

  “And while you’re utilising all that experience, what do I do?”

  “You’ll be assisting.”

  “But I don’t know a widget from a washer.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  He checks his watch.

  “Change of plan. We’ll have lunch early.”

  “Great. I’m starving.”

  “Your belly isn’t my concern. I want a clear run on the fit so there’s no point starting now and then stopping for lunch later.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need to have a word with the manager so I’ll see you down at the van.”

  I scamper away before he changes his mind.

  After a quick detour to wash my hands in the staff cloakroom, I arrive at the van to find my sandwich close to being broiled. The thick white bread is warm to the touch and a little soggy. It doesn’t smell too appetising either.

  Looking a lot like a dog’s tongue, the greyish-pink meat protruding from the edges is, I guess, spam. Christ, I hope it tastes better than it looks and smells.

  As it transpires, there isn’t a lot to taste. It’s salty with just a hint of mild pork, but not unpleasant; unlike the consistency which is too close to chewy for my liking. If I were at home, I’d probably bin it, but after reaching near-starvation yesterday I’m not inclined to waste a morsel. It’s more a test of endurance than a meal but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I wash it down with a few swigs of warm water.

  The driver’s side door slides open.

  “All done, lad?”

  “Yes, thank you. It was … delicious.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it. Corned beef tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  I could repeat my statement a thousand times and it would never sound sincere. Thankfully, George is too interested in his sandwich to notice and sets about devouring it. Within a second of swallowing the last mouthful, he calls an end to our lunch break. Without a watch I can’t be certain but I reckon I’m several minutes short of the promised twenty.

  The afternoon proves less strenuous but more stressful. I’m required to fetch and carry pieces of a bathroom jigsaw, without knowing which pieces are which or where they fit. Slowly but surely, though, the bathroom comes together with George utilising all his experience and me utilising my ability to pick things up and hand them to him.

  At five o’clock he calls it a day. We stand back and admire the day’s handiwork.

  “We should have this one finished by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  “Really? What about the tiling?”

  “Not our problem, lad. We just fit the suites.”

  Although I proved more a hindrance than help, there is some satisfaction in seeing the tangible fruits of your labour — certainly more rewarding than being emailed a spreadsheet of indecipherable data. Why anyone would choose a chocolate-brown suite with gold taps is beyond me, but it’s an upgrade on the one we arrived to this morning.

  We pack up and make our way down to the van.

  Having spent almost ten hours in George’s company, I’ve established he isn’t one for small talk so, even if I could make myself heard over the engine, I doubt he’d be interested in a chat. However, he does pose a question as we wait at a red traffic light.

  “You want me to drop you at the serviceman’s refuge?”

  I’m about to tell him I’m not staying there when I remember the promise I made to Father O’Connor.

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk back from your house.”

  “Sure? It’s quite a walk.”

  “It’s a nice evening.”

  He nods but doesn’t say another word until we pull into the driveway.

  With the van parked, George confirms we’ll be leaving at seven thirty again tomorrow.

  “No worries.”

  “And you didn't do too badly today.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “Now, get yourself out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow, lad.”

  Basking in George’s high praise, I leave him to shut the gates.

  Fifty yards down the road, I realise just how awful I smell. With the temperature still in the mid-twenties, my stench is unlikely to wane on the walk to St Joseph’s, and neither is my thirst. This is exactly the kind of summer evening you want to be sipping a pint of iced cider in a beer garden.

  Wishful thinking on many levels.

  I plod on.

  23.

  Oh, crap.

  I’m not a vain man but I do have standards. Not only do I smell like a teenager’s laundry basket but my hands and face are filthy. I dread to think what state my hair is in.

  “Toby,” she calls out again.

  I can’t ignore her and I’m not sure why I would. What does it matter if she thinks I look like crap?

  Coming to a stop, I look across the road towards Jan on the opposite pavement. I manage a wave and she takes it as a signal to cross over.

  Trotting up, she flashes a smile.

  “You looked miles away.”

  “Miles, and many decades.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Ignore me. How are you?”

  “I’m good, thank you. How did your first day go?”

  “Hard, dirty, and sweaty. Excuse my dishevelled appearance.”

  “Don’t be silly. You look like a man who’s done an honest day’s work.”

  “Thanks, but don’t stand downwind of me.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” she chuckles.

  Judging by her attire I’d guess Jan is on her way home from work. The plain white blouse, grey skirt, and flat shoes are a contrast to the flouncy dress she wore yesterday. She looks more grown-up.

  “I take it Dad didn’t fire you then?”

  “Not yet but it’s early days.”

  “You’ve already lasted longer than two of the last three chaps he employed.”

  “Good to know, although I’m not sure we’ll be entering a partnership anytime soon.”

  She responds with another snort of laughter; followed by an uncomfortable silence as I scrabble for something to say.

  “Do you … um … usually finish work at this time?”

  “No, I finish at five but one of my colleagues caught me on the way out. I had to listen to her troubles for fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh dear. Nothing too serious I hope.”

  “She’s just broken up with her fiancé. Poor Sheila thought he was the one.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “They were due to marry in Sept
ember, too.”

  “What happened?”

  “The sod cheated on her with some floozy he met at The Palais. One of Sheila’s friends caught them on the fire escape.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Of course, he blamed his indiscretion on drink but I blame the pill.”

  “The pill?”

  “Some women think it gives them a licence to sleep around, and some men are happy to oblige.”

  “A bit like Tinder.”

  “What’s Tinder?”

  “It’s, um, a dating service of sorts. And by dating service, I mean it allows people to hook up for … actually, forget it. On the upside, his indiscretion has saved you a few quid.”

  “Has it?”

  “You won’t have to buy a wedding gift.”

  She tries to bite back a grin.

  “I probably won’t share that silver lining with Sheila.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Her smile morphs to a more thoughtful expression.

  "It’s just so awful though, don’t you think? You have your entire future mapped: the fairy-tale wedding, a house, children, growing old together, and then in one sordid moment all those plans go up in smoke."

  “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

  “Oh, do you?”

  “Long story but my girlfriend cheated on me.”

  “I’m so sorry. Did it happen recently?”

  Jan’s question provokes a bizarre thought: as I stand here now, Gemma hasn’t cheated on me yet. Granted, neither she nor her fuck-buddy have been born yet, but it’s still strangely comforting.

  “No, a long time ago. You do come to terms with it; as I’m sure Sheila will.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Another awkward silence arrives.

  “Anyway,” she chirps. “I better get home. Mum will probably want a hand with dinner.”

  “Oh, can you thank her for my sandwich?”

  “I will. What are you having for dinner?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s much on the menu at the serviceman’s refuge.”

  “There isn’t, but I’ll be okay.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  I’ve already fibbed to her father about where I’m staying but a promise is a promise.

  “Grim. It’s a bed though and I’m grateful for it.”

  “Well, you have a pleasant evening.”

  “You too, Jan.”

  She heads off and I find myself watching her skip along the pavement towards number sixteen. I think I like Jan — despite the initial attitude she seems a sweet-natured girl.

  It occurs to me as I wander back to St Joseph’s that I should probably offer Father O’Connor something for putting me up. He’ll have to wait until Friday but it’s the least I can do after he saved me from another night in the bloody refuge. Maybe I’ll buy him a pint of iced cider.

  Reluctantly, I turn my attention to Gwen Kirby although she’s been in the back of my mind all day. Much like the episode in the park with Kayla, my thoughts are dominated by what ifs. If we’d arrived in the park five minutes later, Councillor Clifford and his wife would have never stumbled upon us and my life would have continued along the same uneventful path. As for Gwen, that could have only been a matter of seconds. If I’d arrived at the Post Office maybe ten seconds later, she’d have taken a shot and I’d be back where I should be.

  Small margins, but profound consequences.

  As my angst simmers, Vernon’s face joins the fray. Somewhere in the now, he’s probably sitting down to dinner with Gwen in his nice little house, unaware the man who saved his wife’s life royally stiffed his own in the process. As much as that thought angers me, I can’t lay blame with this incarnation of Vernon. His future self, though, is another matter. I wonder if he knew I’d be stranded in the past. Perhaps he didn’t but I should have considered it.

  It only takes a minute of introspection to conclude I’m angry with myself more than anyone.

  None of this would have happened if I’d kept my dick in my pants that fateful night. I fucked Kayla and fate conspired to fuck me. As much as I’d love to pin all the blame on Vernon, I suppose the culpability rests at my door.

  Who’d have thought one innocent, five-minute shag could change an entire life? Not me, not Kayla, and although I’ve never met the guy, not Sheila’s fiancé; that’s for sure.

  I come to an abrupt halt.

  “Of course,” I blurt.

  I’m even more annoyed with myself for not realising it sooner. Vernon ended up in the nursing home because he lost the love of his life but there’s more than one way to lose someone, as I know first-hand.

  I ponder the mechanics.

  There’s no doubt it would be difficult; perhaps impossible. Even so, it’s more palatable than murder and the consequences far less damaging.

  It’s now so obvious: all I need to do is terminate Gwen and Vernon’s relationship in such a manner he’ll slip into the same downward spiral, and his miserable life will lead him back to Trinity Place. With the timeline restored, I should return to where I belong.

  But how?

  The muscles in my hand prime in preparation to delve into a pocket, and I have to remind myself there’s no point. I wonder how long it will be before I stop instinctively reaching for my phone whenever I have a question which requires online research.

  Work it out yourself, moron.

  The most obvious answer is infidelity but how do I get either Vernon or Gwen to cheat? I don’t know either of them well enough to determine if they’re even the type. They married less than a year ago so what are the chances either would stray so soon? I know it happens — I read a post on Facebook about some poor guy who caught his new bride noshing-off a waiter just three days into their honeymoon. These are different times, though, and maybe people take their wedding vows a little more seriously.

  I reach St Joseph’s still unconvinced my plan is achievable, but undeterred. It would be easy to let the negativity win but every week someone wins the lottery despite astronomical odds. Surely the odds of me breaking up a married couple aren’t forty-five million to one? Even if they are, it’s now clear I won’t be going home if this timeline continues, so I have to try.

  A shag got me here so perhaps all it takes is a shag to get me home? It’s not exactly how HG Wells foresaw time travel but his story was, I presume, fictional.

  The church itself is locked up so I scoot down the side passage. I’m sure Father O’Connor would have preferred a country church with a cottage in the grounds but he seems happy enough in the flat above the hall.

  I rap on the door and, after a brief wait, the door is opened.

  “You didn’t have to knock,” Father O’Connor says. “The door is always open when I’m home.”

  “Oh, right.”

  He turns and heads back up the stairs. I slip my awful shoes off and follow.

  “Are you hungry?” the priest calls from the kitchen.

  I wander in to find him scouring the fridge.

  “Starving.”

  “I’m making sausage and mash if you’d like some?”

  “Yes please. And do you mind if I have a quick bath?”

  He sniffs the air.

  “I think that’s a grand idea. No more than ten inches, mind.”

  “Ten inches?”

  “Of water. Any more is wasteful.”

  “Noted. I won’t be long.”

  As I wait for the taps to deposit the ten-inch water ration, I peel off my clothes and stare into the bathroom mirror. Having spent so many years working in an office, I’ve got in the habit of shaving every day and ensuring my hair is always neat and tidy. The man looking back at me in the mirror looks more like the lead singer of a grunge band than a marketing manager. As I suspected, my hair is a mess and, without a razor, my face is shadowed with dark stubble. I’ve also caught the sun; a rare occurrence as I usually spend most of the summer staring at a computer screen
or a television.

  I conclude the face no longer looks like me, but is that such a bad thing? In my time I’m just plain old Toby Grant but here this new look differs from the average man my age. From what I’ve seen they appear to fall into one of two camps: the conservative types with neat moustaches and hair slick with pomade, or the long-haired youthful types who appear to model themselves on The Beatles or Rolling Stones.

  It’s good to be different, isn’t it?

  The water level hits ten inches and I climb in. I much prefer lying in a bath to carrying one, although I’d give anything for a decent shower.

  I set about my ablutions with the limited toiletries: a bar of bright yellow soap and a bottle of Vosene shampoo; both of which have an odd antiseptic odour. It appears people of this era prefer to smell disinfected rather than pleasant.

  Despite the onset of aching limbs, it feels good to wash away the sweat and filth of the day. I could lie in the bath all evening if it wasn’t for my rumbling stomach; not helped by the scent of frying sausages creeping under the bathroom door.

  I climb out, get dressed, and give the bathtub a wipe down.

  Back in the kitchen, Father O’Connor is at the stove dealing with various pots and pans.

  “Anything I can do?” I ask.

  “You could lay the table. Cutlery is in the top drawer.”

  I do as instructed, but it only takes a minute.

  “Anything else you need me to do, Father? I feel like a spare part.”

  “You’re a guest. Just sit yourself down.”

  I plonk myself down at the table and a minute later dinner is served.

  “Enjoy.”

  I look down at my plate. A trio of plump sausages nestle against a mound of mashed potato, topped with fried onions.

  “Oh, I will. Thank you.”

  Father O’Connor joins me at the table and I’m about to dig in when he coughs.

  “Are we forgetting something, young man?”

  I put my knife and fork down.

  “Right, sorry.”

  The priest does the whole chest and forehead tapping routine before bowing his head.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”